


If I Hadn't

by PurpleArrowzandLeather



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Best Friends, Blood, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father Figure Lestrade, Gen, Hurt John Watson, Hurt/Comfort, Sherlock Holmes Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-25 22:13:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21542812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PurpleArrowzandLeather/pseuds/PurpleArrowzandLeather
Summary: Sherlock gets himself into some trouble, and John is the one who pays the price to get him out again.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 100





	If I Hadn't

**Author's Note:**

> I own nothing.  
> I didn't edit, it was midnight. Enjoy :)

It wasn’t unusual for Sherlock to find himself at barrel’s end. He knew exactly how long it would take the bullet to reach him from a gun of its caliber. With his hands raised and the hammer pulled back, there would be no chance of a takedown from his place near the wall. His would-be killer’s mouth ticks up into a smile and he braces himself. 

“Hey!” 

The killer’s aim swings and Sherlock’s gaze snaps towards the door. John is there. 

Two shots ring out, one from the weapon which would have murdered Sherlock and the other from John’s. Sherlock knows he can’t move fast enough. A moment is all it takes. 

The shooter goes down, but so does John. 

Sherlock rushes the few steps it takes to reach him, his hand immediately pressing against the bleeding hole in John’s chest. He mutters words as he pulls out his phone, keeping John upright as much as he can. John, ever-resistant, tugs on his coat sleeve to get his attention. Sherlock looks him in the eye as he presses the phone to his ear. 

John chuckles, leaning against Sherlock as much as he can. “It seems we all have a bad habit of taking bullets for you." 

“No. No, you’re not going to die.” 

“I never said I was going to die.” 

Sherlock keeps talking, already calculating and analyzing even as he demands an ambulance from the person on the other end of the line. 

John wants to tell him to calm down, but Sherlock doesn’t panic without reason. And he _is_ panicking. He wouldn’t want John to know it, but he is. Sherlock panicking means he’s already done the math and found John’s time wanting. 

John isn’t afraid. Somehow, he knows everything will be fine. 

“Sherlock.” 

“Don’t talk. You need your strength.” 

John huffs out a laugh, ignoring Sherlock’s scathing look as he presses his scarf against the wound. “If I’m really meant to die today, then strength will do me no good.” 

“Meant to. What is that supposed to mean?” 

John doesn’t answer that, merely focusing on staying alive until the ambulance shows up. One thing he does note with particular clarity is that Sherlock’s hands are covered in blood. 

Sherlock is measuring. There is so much red, he’s having a hard time staying focused. Ounce by ounce, John is going to drain dry, and there’s nothing Sherlock can do about it. He’s almost shocked into silence by how desperate he is for John’s survival. It never occurs to him just how much he needs John until there’s a chance his friend isn’t going to be around anymore. 

No. That isn’t right. 

It always occurs to him. Always, even at inopportune times. Like now. 

“Sherlock.” 

He looks up, meeting John’s eyes yet again. He’s laying down on a fold-up gurney, and Sherlock is sitting on the ambulance bench out of the way. When did John lie down? When did they reach the ambulance? 

The timer in his head is still running. 

Running. 

Ticking. 

It tells him just how long John has, and he doesn’t have long. He knows how many stitches it’ll take to close the wound, and a rough estimate of how much time each stitch will take assuming the doctor has steady hands and is prepared. The location of the gunshot means they may have to cut him open. 

“Sherlock!” 

Sherlock’s hands start to shake, so he runs them through his hair and pulls hard. “It won’t stop, John. The machine won’t stop _.The_ _machine won’t stop_.” 

John manages a weak laugh, but the doctors tell him to stop. Strained as it was, it helps Sherlock to calm a little bit. Laughing in the face of danger is so simply _John_ that Sherlock can’t help but breathe easier. Logically, he knows it’s just his parasympathetic nervous system attempting to ignore the stress he’s under, but he can choose to ignore logic. 

The hospital is awful. 

Sherlock paces around in circles in the waiting room, his eyes taking in everything. The chair legs should be two feet tall, but the one in the corner is lopsided. Clearly not a custom job. There are saliva stains on the arm and hair on the back of another, indicating someone slept there. A thin ridge-line on the edge of the third one catches his attention. He wonders just how many times someone ran their nails back and forth against that one spot to make it appear threadbare. 

How many people sat in that very chair and did the same thing while they waited for news on their loved ones. Husbands. Wives. Children. Friends. 

Family. 

How many were left feeling empty inside? 

Sherlock continues pacing. He won’t resign himself to sitting idly by in one of those chairs. Observing the things around him is all he can do to - 

“Holmes!” 

He jerks to a stop, his head turning towards the voice. “Lestrade.” 

“Holmes, are you all right?” 

“I’m fine, but John -” 

Lestrade puts a hand on his shoulder. “I heard. The people at the front desk told me you were with John when they came in, so I figured I’d find you here.” 

Sherlock has to resist the urge to say it would be obvious he was here. 

“Do you know how bad it is?” 

Sherlock says nothing, but Lestrade takes him in one piece at a time. His hands are still shaking, still bloody almost up to his wrists. He has blood on his temple from where he rubbed his hands earlier and his hair is wild. If Lestrade is being honest with himself, he looks to be on the brink of tears. 

Lestrade hates to think it, but Sherlock is still so young. So new to a world with compassion compared to the one he not so long ago saw as cold. 

“Sherlock.” Lestrade intones. 

“No, don’t. Don’t say anything. This.... For hours, I’ve been trying to convince myself this wasn’t my fault. I’ve gone through every scenario, every possibility, and I realize this was all avoidable if I hadn’t been reckless. If I hadn’t chased down a killer on the assumption they wouldn’t shoot, John would be safe. If I hadn’t jumped in without looking, he would not have a bullet in his chest!” 

Lestrade is quiet for a moment. “He wouldn’t blame you.” 

“ _That bullet was meant for me_.” Sherlock brings his eyes up to Lestrade’s. “It should have been me! If I hadn’t -” 

The inspector stops him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders firmly. Sherlock doesn’t lean into him per se, but he also doesn’t pull away. Unlike last time, he doesn’t even roll his eyes. It’s startling to Greg to realize it’s not just the man’s hands shaking. 

“Easy, Holmes.” 

“I did the math, Greg.” 

Lestrade blinks, but he doesn’t let go. He also doesn’t say anything about Sherlock calling him Greg, not Gavin. “They haven’t called it yet, have they, Sherlock?” 

He shakes his head, swallowing. “It doesn’t mean anything.” 

“Sure, it does. He’s already outlived your expectations, and mine since he started working with you. John has beat the odds more than once, and I’ll not be surprised if he does again.” 

“If I hadn’t -” 

“Enough of that, Holmes. No ifs, ands, or maybes are going to change what happened. When John gets out of surgery, he will tell you the same thing.” 

For once, Sherlock doesn’t bother arguing. 

Lestrade manages to get Sherlock to sit down, but it doesn’t last. In no time at all, he’s pacing around again. There are other people in the waiting room of course, but he doesn’t seem to be paying them any mind. 

Actually, no. Greg supposes that’s wrong of him to think. Rather, Sherlock is ignoring the impulse to observe them. It occurs to Lestrade as odd, but then he figures Sherlock doesn’t want to look at them and see himself. 

He doesn’t want to be afraid. 

Lestrade is just starting to get antsy when someone comes to fill them in on John’s condition. Watching the younger man walk around in tight circles like a trapped animal is liable to put anyone on edge. 

“Doctor.” 

Sherlock’s head snaps up, but when he sees the doctor coming closer, his jaw clenches. He’s desperate for news, but he doesn’t actually want to hear it. Doesn’t even want to consider the possibility it’s bad. 

“Mr. Holmes?” 

“Yes?” 

The doctor looks down at his clipboard, tilting his head. “There.... Well, there are no next of kin listed, but you’re on record as his emergency contact?” 

“Yes, that’s correct.” 

Lestrade notes that he doesn’t call him on stating the obvious. 

“Right this way.” 

Lestrade moves to follow, but the doctor shoots him a look. “And... you are?” 

Sherlock narrows his eyes at the man, glancing back and motioning for Lestrade to walk with him. When his gaze meets that of the doctor a second time, he merely lifts a brow. “Family, doctor. Now, if you don’t mind, take us to John.” 

He’ll be teasing Sherlock for calling him family later, but right now all he can do is appreciate it. 

The doctor seems hesitant, but he leads the way. Lestrade wonders if it’s Sherlock’s tenacity or his reputation as a barely-contained sociopath that allows him to simply get what he wants. 

The doctor stops in front of the proper door, fixing both of them with a stern look. “He’s resting now. Try not to wake him.” 

Sherlock huffs, opening the door and letting himself in. 

Lestrade runs a hand through his hair, sighing. “Stubborn man, isn’t he?” 

“Let’s not waste our time focusing on him. Rather....” He tilts his head, looking and listening for the tiniest details. “we should ask John how he’s doing, considering he’s not asleep.” 

The inspector shakes his head, smiling at the two of them. 

John cracks both eyes open just a smidge, his gaze landing on Sherlock first. “Told you I wasn’t gonna die.” 

Sherlock places a hand at his wrist despite the heart monitor next to him, counting up in his head instead of down now. It makes him feel a little better. 

Lestrade smirks and settles into the chair nearby. 

“Sherlock, your hands.” 

He places them behind his back. “I’m fine. The blood, it’s ... all yours.... John, I-” 

John hums in his throat, closing his eyes again. “You don’t have to apologize, Sherlock. I’ll be fine.” He glances towards Lestrade. “You get him cleaned up, all right?” 

“Of course.” 

John falls asleep for real now, as the pulse under Sherlock’s fingers indicates. It’s not thready as Sherlock feared it might be, but strong. 

“Come now, Sherlock. We’d best get on doing as he asked. He’ll want to know you’ve been taken care of as well.” 

Sherlock practically _mewls_. “Me? John’s the one who’s been shot. Why are we worrying about me all of a sudden? If anyone needs to be worried after and catered to, it's John in his current state."

“Because you’re covered in blood and it’s high time you didn’t look as if you’d just committed murder.” Lestrade gets up steering him from the room. 

Sherlock scoffs. “Why are we really doing this?” 

Lestrade hums, pushing the younger man into the washroom and helping him scrub the blood from his hands. “Because it’s what John wants.” 

That’s all he has to say, and yet Sherlock doesn’t call Greg on manipulating him. 

_If I hadn’t -_

Sherlock closes his eyes, letting the hot water run over his hands for a few seconds. John never cares what kind of trouble he gets himself into, just that he can help get Sherlock back out. 

Maybe that’s all that matters. 


End file.
